


a barnacled warship, singing the fighter's refrain

by thatsparrow



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers: Episode 99
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: Kilgharrah is old, but Uk'otoa is older, and so when the great serpent calls, the dragon turtle listens.Bring me the betrayer.[spoilers for episode 99]
Relationships: Fjord & The Mighty Nein
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	a barnacled warship, singing the fighter's refrain

**Author's Note:**

> title from "barnacled warship" by johnny flynn

Kilgharrah is old, but Uk'otoa is older, and so when the great serpent calls, the dragon turtle listens.

 _Bring me the betrayer_.

Below his broad claws, Kilgharrah feels the water shifting like the rippling current of a thrashing tail. Kilgharrah is old, and so he is old enough to remember how Uk'otoa once slept as still as bone-bleached coral, breathed slow and intermittent while blood-colored algae bloomed across his scales. But now a tremor shakes the ocean as Uk'otoa gives voice to his fury, asleep no more, his bindings winnowed to a single rusted chain. _Bring me the betrayer,_ Uk'otoa says, and Kilgharrah can feel the serpent's rage cresting over his shell, as cold and unforgiving as the sun-starved waters where Uk'otoa waits.

 _Bring me the betrayer_ —and the current moves Kilgharrah now, pulls him to the south, tilts the curve of his nose toward the water's surface— _and I will flood the earth with an ocean that never ends. Bring me the betrayer, and there will be no stretch of the world that is denied to you._

Kilgharrah is old enough to know power, old enough to recognize the promise of Uk'otoa's words, and so he follows this new pull of the ocean, angles the great planes of his claws and propels himself upwards. To those watching, it would seem as if a new island is being birthed as the curve of Kilgharrah's shell breaks the surface, ridged and mountainous and ocean-slicked. 

_Bring me the betrayer_ , Uk'otoa's voice echoes, and now, _there_ —Kilgharrah sees the stern of a vessel, sails unfurled like clouds that have been tethered to the earth. And what is that fragile assembly of beams and caulk when compared to the claws and might of a dragon turtle? The oceans are meant for those of scale and fin, not these arrogant creatures who trust themselves to cloth and matchsticks and who balance above a world that would drown them if they fell too deep below its surface. But Kilgharrah will enlighten them; the destruction of ships in his blood.

Water streams around him as he paddles forward, leaving a wake of froth and foam behind him. Ahead, the vessel sails on, but whatever momentum it catches from the wind is no match for the centuries of power in his muscles. Kilgharrah swims, eyes trained on the shadow of the keel, a dark shadow against the sun-filtered blue of the waters, _his_ waters, and it wouldn't be the work of a moment to carve open the hull with his claws, to split the seams with the ridged spines of his back. _Bring me the betrayer_ , Uk'otoa had said, and with the help of the ocean flooding into the lower decks, Kilgharrah will.

He's close enough now to see the figures aboard, smudges of color moving back and forth, sunlight glinting off spyglasses, gun-ports slowly opening—the signs of panic, and Kilgharrah knows them well. He lifts his head one last time—let them not mistake the curve of his snout, the bright edge of his eyes that, unbeknownst to him, have turned from a dark brown-green to a honeyed amber, the water turned to a bubbling boil around his mouth from the heat of the fire in his belly—and then Kilgharrah dives. Let them play games with their cannons and spellcraft; here, far enough below the waves where light and warmth struggle to reach, he is king. Let them wait in their clumsy ship, wondering where he has gone. Let them only understand when the wood is sundered below their feet, broken in two by the razored edges of his claws, his shell, his teeth. Let the body of the betrayer be delivered to where Uk'otoa waits below while Kilgharrah feeds on the rest.

—

(Kilgharrah has little interest in the affairs of earthbound creatures—their politics and their pleas sound the same to him—but were he close enough to see the deck, were he curious to hear the conversation aboard, he might observe the following:

A forest-green half-orc stripping off his boats and coat, casting an unknown enchantment on himself and the six crew-members around him while they argue in protest.

"What the fuck are you _doing_ —"

"Uh, Mr. Fjord, I really think we should reconsider this—"

"You understand this is suicide, _ja_ —?"

He'd see the half-orc stop, pull himself upright, call out, " _Enough!"_ in the brooks-no-argument voice of a captain. He'd hear the half-orc say, softer, "Enough, please. This isn't a fight we can win, nor one we can run from. If none of you have heard stories of the dragon turtles, listen closely: you bargain, or you die, and the behemoth beneath us evidently isn't looking for treasure or persuasion. It will turn the ship to kindling and swallow the remains and I'll not see that happen to any of you."

A woman now, muscled, brown-skinned, her expression stony. "Spoilers, but you don't fucking get to make that decision. If this thing wants to fight, then we'll give it a fucking fight. I'm not forfeiting before the game has started."

"Beau—"

"She's right." A human man, flame-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail and a curious monkey perched on his shoulder. "Besides, your plan is folly. Nothing of this situation suggests the dragon turtle is an agent of Uk'otoa. You have no proof it would be satisfied with your death alone."

"Listen to Caleb." A halfling woman shifts her stance, adjusts her hold on a small crossbow. "Put your boots back on and quit being such an idiot."

"Believe me," the half-orc says, "this is not my preferred outcome either, but I cannot believe this is a coincidence. We sailed for weeks on the Lucidian before without encountering any such threat, now we face our second within a matter of days? From a creature whose eyes are the same color as the crystal? No, this is Uk'otoa's doing, and I will not see you all punished for the sake of my folly."

"I hear what you're saying, but I think you've got this wrong." Firbolgs are a rare sight on the ocean; likely Kilgharrah wouldn't even be able to put the name to the tall, pastel pink creature who speaks next. "This isn't your path, anymore. Uk'otoa may not be done with you, but you're done with him. You proved that back at the Kiln. I'll grant you the mistakes you made before, but they don't have to be the end of you now."

"And even assuming you're right about this being the work of Uk'otoa—" the human man says, "—which I'm still not convinced that you are—he isn't only interested in you, but in the crystal that we recently removed from your chest. Yes, Uk'otoa may be briefly satisfied with your death, but he won't rest until he's ensured his freedom, too."

"None of that matters so long as Uk'otoa still believes that I'm carrying the orb. Better that I don't have it, and let him indulge in the belief that I do long enough for the rest of you to make your escape. Get to shore, and then you can keep the last crystal locked away in a demiplane where he may never find it." 

"Please, Fjord." This from a blue tiefling, holding herself at bay a little, a pained look on her face. " _Please_ don't do this."

"I love you all too much to let you die for me. I've made my decision, and I'll hear no more discussion on the matter, not when the dragon turtle could surface at any moment and bring about the end for all of us."

He moves to step away, but then there's a blur of movement from the human woman, the wrapped knuckles of her fists aimed at specific incapacitating points along the half-orc's chest and abdomen. Before she gets close enough, though, he whispers something arcane, sends out a wave of spring-green magic that freezes the six of them in place. He flexes his hand a little at the motion, as if this momentary betrayal has stung his skin. With the rest of them watching, still held fast by the enchantment, he steps toward the edge of the deck and pulls himself up to stand on the railing. Another flick of his wrist and a star-bright blade appears in his hand.

"I've re-upped the water breathing charm on the lot of us, in case something else should happen before you make it to shore. Sail fast, to whichever harbor is closest." He adjusts his grip on the sword, swallows. "I can't—thank you all enough, for everything. Take care of each other. Maybe I'll see you on the other side."

They cannot argue further with their voices sealed in their throats, and so they can only watch as he turns to face the ocean.

"Wildmother, protect me," he says, and then he lets himself fall into the water below.)

—

The next thing that Kilgharrah sees is a small splash off the ship's port side, too steep of an angle to be the burst of cannon fire. The wake streams twenty feet down, then thirty, and in the disturbance of the water, Kilgharrah can now see a humanoid shape, dark green against the blue, something long and bright held in its right hand. The creature lets itself sink lower toward the bulk of the waiting dragon turtle, close enough now for Kilgharrah to discern the figure of a half-orc man, barefoot and steel-eyed, floating steady in the gloom.

"Are you," Kilgharrah says in his deep, rumbling voice, "the betrayer?"

"I am," he says, bubbles spilling out of his mouth when he speaks. He seems surprisingly unafraid for one about to die; perhaps he hopes to fight Uk'otoa with that sword that's shorter than one of the serpent's teeth. "Did Uk'otoa send you?" he asks.

Kilgharrah nods, churning a wave from the heavy weight of his head. "He did."

"Good. I'm ready, now."

**Author's Note:**

> yes, technically "hold person" is a second level spell, and so if fjord casts it at sixth level, the most he can hold is five people, but sometimes you've gotta say "fuck it" for the sake of a dramatic moment
> 
> fun fact: kilgharrah is the name of the dragon from merlin (and the name of a half-orc hunter I once played in a game of pathfinder)


End file.
